Mind of Reason, Heart of Enlightenment
by Cafella
Summary: Part 2 is out! In this version, our hero returns home. In addtion, you may notice I prefaced my story with a few lines from a song. I didn't do this last time, but adding a line of poetry or two to set the tone for my work is something I generally do.
1. Chapter 1

The last day of the term before a holiday break was cause for much jubilation among the students. As snow littered the streets of Paris, they gathered for a night of celebration. The Café Voltaire was Grantaire's idea. According to him, it was the best place to go to celebrate the end of term, a place promising good wine and pretty mademoiselles. The same idea must have struck others, because that night in December, the Café Voltaire was crowded with all types of students.

Getting Enjolras to comply was a bit difficult. He always viewed such merriments as a waste of time, and wanted to go to their regular hangouts, where he could debate freely with his friends. Not surprisingly, this sentiment was not shared by the other members of the ABC. Combeferre eventually talked him into joining them, however, and so, on that snowy December night, the group of friends made their way to the Café Voltaire.

It was crowded, but the air was filled with a sense of jubilation and freedom, with the noise of different conversations, and with the smell of smoke. Even Bossuet managed to scrape a few sous together for a drink. At one table, a small group was forming around Jehan, who was slowly getting more and more drunk. In between swigs of wine, he would cry out another verse of a poem he was composing off the top of his head. "Oh, sacred wine, immortal drink of Bacchus, I cry out to you for my inspiration. Ignite within me the flames of…" His poetry wasn't perfect, especially when composed in his inebriated mind, but it was good enough to draw a small crowd of spectators.

Combeferre, meanwhile, was enjoying the entertainment that came from watching a drunken Grantaire, who was loudly joking with Bahorel. Next to him sat Courfeyrac, and the two chatted amiably over whether Graintaire's drinking problem would get him into trouble someday when Combeferre soon found a heavily bandaged arm thrust underneath his nose.

"Would you mind looking at this? I need a second opinion." The voice was Joly's, and he glanced about nervously, as though worried his arm might fall off that very second.

"Joly!" Courfeyrac chimed in. "I was there when it happened. It was a piece of paper. A tiny piece of paper, and a scratch. You aren't dying, my friend."

"A paper scratch today, gangrene tomorrow!" cried out Joly.

Combeferre sighed deeply and took Joly's arm, carefully unwrapping the expertly bandaged wound. For an entire arm dressed in linen, the wound was only a small paper cut on the side of his lower thumb. It was red, like all paper scratches, and probably stung, but there was really nothing to do. Comebeferre opened his mouth to try and say this, but was cut off by Bossuet's voice. "Oh dear… look at Grantaire."

Grantaire, who had showed up to the Café Voltaire already drunk, had lost any trace of sobriety. He was now rambling, as he did when he was drunk, to a young grisette. But that wasn't the problem. The girl, a pretty, curvaceous redhead, had been staring at Enjolras all evening. Enjolras had agreed to come to the Café, but had showed up with an anti-Rousseau essay in his hand. Refusing any alcohol, he had settled himself down amiably in a chair and read while the others celebrated. For a reason the other students did not quite understand, Enjolras loved reading opinions he vehemently disagreed with. They upset and angered him, but he couldn't really stop. Courfeyrac called it his one addiction.

So, as the handsome man read all night, his blue eyes scanning page after page, he was completely unaware of the woman staring at him, realizing she was staring, looking away, and then staring again, an endless cycle of wishful thinking. Grantaire, however, had noticed. Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly watched as though spellbound while Grantaire egged the grisette on, urging her to talk to the handsome young man in the corner. She looked nervous at first, but whatever Grantaire said must have been convincing. After a few moments, she strode over to where Enjolras was sitting, contemplating the more controversial aspects of the Social Contract.

With all the coquettishness that a young woman could muster, she leant over the table and spoke to him. Combeferre's table was silent, awaiting the inevitable. At first, Enjolras looked up at her with a confused expression, as though he could not understand what she wanted. A bemused expression dominated his face, and his fingers twisted the edges of the Rousseau pamphlet. The mademoiselle, however, seemed not to notice, and flirtatiously tossed her long red hair about. The students watched as Enjolras's expression crossed from confusion to understanding to annoyance. He opened his mouth to speak, but over the noise of the Café his words could not be heard by Combeferre and the others. What he said, however, was not to the grisette's liking. She turned quickly from him and hurried away. Halfway across the café she met Grantaire. Holding back tears of embarrassment, realizing she was a victim of a cruel joke on Grantaire's part, she slapped him with all her strength. Before he could respond, she was on her way towards the door outside.

"Oh… dear." said Combeferre. Courfeyrac, who could never resist a damsel in distress, quickly rose to his feet and went to comfort her before she could leave the café. He steered her towards another table, his arm around her waist, talking in comforting tones. Before long, she was sitting on his lap, tossing her hair flirtatiously, and now and then casting angry looks at Enjolras, perhaps hoping to show him how desired she was.

Enjolras, for his part, took no notice. The girl had broken his train of thought, and he was left only with a faint sense of annoyance. His irritation was mostly towards Grantaire. He contributed nothing to the Society. He was a drunk and a bad influence. For the life of him, Enjolras could not understand why the others put up with him. They were always too polite around him; it was if they did not notice was terrible company he made. Enjolras had always tried to make it clear how he felt about having Grantaire around, but the others took no notice.

He sighed. Why was he so cold towards that young Mademoiselle in the first place? She really was sweet, but… He thought of all the time, all the effort that Courfeyrac and Joly and Combeferre put into their mistresses. How they degraded themselves by chasing after these women, showering them with gifts and love letters. How Enjolras just could not, for the life of him, understand why anyone would want that when there was more important stuff to do.

But others never took his view of things. His mother, especially, was quite a pain in these matters. Enjolras knew exactly what he had to face when he returned home to visit his parents for Christmas, and wasn't looking forward to it at all. (Not to mention the fact that he always _tried_ to be polite when discussing politics with his father, but dinner with Monsieur Enjolras always turned into a shouting match.)

Enjolras folded his pamphlet up and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat. He glanced at Courfeyrac and the redhead and shook his head. It just isn't worth all that time and effort, he told himself. I have more important things to do.

Yet the pair looked so happy, and the steadfast student, for once in his life, doubted his view of things.


	2. Chapter 2

"Come you mothers and fathers, throughout the land,

And don't criticize what you don't understand.

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

And the old road is rapidly aging"

-The Times They Are A-Changin'

Through the snow, the fiacre rumbled across the French countryside. Within, a young man, handsomely dressed in expensive, tailored clothing, leaned back, arms folded across his chest, with his eyes closed and a thoughtful expression upon his face.

One might have thought he was asleep, if he hadn't suddenly opened his eyes and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew his hand, now holding a small piece of paper, on which was written, in Combeferre's precise handwriting, "J'ai juré sur l'autel de Dieu, à l'hostilité éternelle contre toute forme de tyrannie sur l'esprit de l'homme" Beneath it was its incomprehensible translation in a language Enjolras did not know. He read the French out once, and decided to try its original English. "I… have… sworn upon the altar of God… eternal hostility to… every form of tyranny over the mind of man". He gagged at the end. An ugly language, indeed! It sounded like something the noble savage might have used for a language.

Enjolras closed his eyes again. Before he left the café last night, Combeferre had pulled him aside and showed his friend what he had found in his almost daily dissection of the library. "Powerful, is it not?" He said. "I thought perhaps you might like it. It describes you very well."

"Who said it?" Enjolras had asked politely.

"Erm… Some... American…" Combeferre had said, almost sheepishly.

"An American?" Courfeyrac had yelled over the background rabble of the celebrators. "Surely you are jesting, Combeferre? Those men dealing in souls and living in the middle of God-forsaken no-where?"

How Courfeyrac had laughed, that night, Enjolras remembered. But it was true, was it not? Nobody ever paid any attention to that bizarre land trying so hard to be taken seriously by great nations such as France and Spain... And yet... Enjolras was fascinated with those words. Their strength... the way they seemed to cram everything he stood for into one little statement. He smiled to himself as he re-folded the paper and put it away. Looking outside the fiacre, he could see the large and rather imposing manor of his parents in the distance. His parents owned two homes: one in Paris proper, so they could mingle with the highly regarded Parisian social circles, and one in the provinces, for holidays and general "relaxation".

Monsieur Enjolras was the first to greet his son when he entered the mansion. "Look, look, at my newest addition" he said to his son, leading him into the parlor. Enjolras' father had but one passion, and that was hunting. It was one of the traditions of the old world that he clung to greedily. "She took one of our men with her," his father said softly. "When I went on an expedition to one of the colonies. Don't tell your mother, she'll just worry." With a sweeping gesture of his hand, old Monsieur Enjolras indicated a small leopard, newly stuffed, positioned on a little stand. Enjolras knelt down in front of the tiny, innocent thing.

"It's no bigger than a dog" he said softly. "Is it young?"

"You would think so, but no. They say it's called a clouded leopard. They're all that small, but their teeth... if you were ever to see one sufficiently riled, by Jove it has the biggest teeth of any animal I had ever seen."

Enjolras shuddered. The creature was so elegant, so angelically beautiful. It seemed like something impossible to shoot.

"Stared us straight in the eye when we trapped it. Earlier that week it had dragged one of our own out of camp. We had to kill it, you know. Terrifying animal. You really wouldn't think so, looking at it. It looks like something you would keep as a pet. But mind you, anyone who thinks an animal like that is tame and can be domesticated has got quite the shock coming to him."

Enjolras nodded. He didn't know whether it was the long fiacre ride or the thought of something that beautiful staring its executioners in the eye, but he felt slightly ill. He stood up and announced he needed to rest.

The days passed. Enjolras divided his time between reading and philosophizing, and avoiding his mother's constant questioning over whether he had happened to meet a young women of high class and great wealth yet. Such a thing had been her greatest concern over the past years, and recently (perhaps at the insinuation of his aunt, a wicked shrew) she had gotten it into her head that her only son might be one of those "odd ones who never marry". He knew exactly what she meant by that and found himself slightly miffed his mother and her sister thought so.

How could he ever explain why he acted the way he was? Simply put, there were things more important in this world than the idle pleasure of romance. Very few people thought that way, and those that didn't automatically assumed it was impossible to turn away any chance of love so easily. Men like Courfeyrac stood amazed when he turned cold at the advancements of such ladies as the pretty redhead of the night before. They didn't understand that by agreeing to marry, by settling down, he would be embracing the very thing that he snubbed. He would be agreeing to live the life of an ordinary man, to father children and pass on his family's name. He would live and die and nothing would be any different. He was in his mid twenties now, and his time was running out to do something grand for the fight of liberty. By the time Saint-Just was his age... oh, how much he had accomplished!

Suffice it to say he could never explain that to his mother, and so she would just keep pestering him. What made things worse was that the Saldeaux family was coming to the Enjolras estate for Christmas. Monsieur Saldeaux fell somewhere between distant relative and close family friend, and bore the stature and appearance of an old-world royalist. He had spent his youngest years in England during the Revolution, his family having fled for safety reasons. He never forgot the indignation of being a refugee, and harbored a strong dislike for any change, any upset to what he called, "the natural and divine order of things". He had a daughter in her late teens, an insufferable Marie Antoinette (named after the equally insufferable princess Saldeaux was convinced had been horrifically murdered), and Enjolras knew his mother desired nothing more in the world than to see the two married. He would sooner marry one of the queans he passed on his way to and from University.

Still, Enjolras reflected, things could be worse. Prouvaire flatly refused to visit his family for Christmas. "As long as the stars still make their orbit in the heavenly spheres, as long as this great land of France still stands proudly in the heart of Europe, as long as the seas still sweep their sand and foam ashore, I will never return to the house of my father" He said proudly. Prouvaire's father hated his shy, awkward, somewhat girlish poet of a son, and had spent much energy during Jehan's childhood trying to beat some masculinity into the boy. As a consequence, that gentle soul left that horrid house for University as soon as he could, and decreed he would never return.

The actual day of Christmas was a marvel to behold. The servants had been up all night preparing what was to be a 16-course feast: four courses of appetizer, four of "first dinner", four of "second dinner", and four of desert. No one really ate all that, the men ate a little from each plate and the ladies picked at whatever they wished. Many plates were sent back to the kitchen barely touched, something that made Enjolras mad with anger. Such a waste, when there was poor starving in the streets of Paris.

Much of the Enjolras family was there, including relatives as distant as Saldeaux. Grand parties were among the only source of entertainment in the dull lives of France's upper class. He had been seated across from Saldeaux, and next to (of course, his mother had planned the seating) Marie. It was during the first meat course when Saldeaux decided to enlighten everyone present with his opinions.

As soon as he began, talking about the threat to the proper way of life posed by the radials nowadays, Enjolras became very stiff and looked down. He had lost any resemblance of an appetite. Saldeaux was quickly supported by one of Enjolras' uncles, and soon it was as though all the men were in consensus. The ladies, of course, held their tongues, ignorant of the political world. A few whispered to one another about the latest fashions. Old Monsieur Enjolras glanced warily at his son. The two had reached a silent agreement about politics years ago. They could argue lightly, on only the least controversial of topics, and that was it. For the sake of Madame Enjolras, who couldn't stand the thought of a row between the two, they kept discussion limited. But they knew exactly where each other stood, and Monsieur Enjolras knew how passionate his son was. Therefore, he kept an eye on his son as Saldeaux spoke.

Enjolras, for one, wished for a row. He loved the excitement of political debate, the sort of adrenaline rush and feeling of purpose that came from defending liberty. And yet, he could not bring himself to contradict his family. This annoyed him. Something of his old world upbringing had stuck with him, engrained within his conscience, and he had always viewed it as a matter of respect to let Saldeaux talk.

He felt ashamed. He could easily argue with Combeferre, telling him he wanted things too slow, in too much moderation, and nothing would ever be accomplished that way, unless over the period of centuries, and what good was that to anyone? He enjoyed, even welcomed, the conflict. And yet every time he tried to speak here, every time he tried to defend the sacred idea of a republic, he was a mute. It was a painful, chained feeling.

Three times he opened his mouth to say something, three times he closed his mouth with a sigh. This would have gone on for ten more courses had Saldeaux, now a little drunk and pointing his fork like a sword at Enjolras, addressed the young man thus: "I'm telling you, you had better not be shaming your family name and joining those firebrands, deliberating on this subject or that, trying to bring about another bloodbath of regicide"

"A bloodbath of regicide?" Enjolras said softly, "No Monsieur. I only support the killing of those who have committed unspeakable crimes against the social contract."

His voice trembled a little as he said it. It was a gamble. Would Saldeaux be smart enough to understand the reference to Rousseau, and thus understand the implication that to him, execution a despot was not a crime?

He was. "Oh, my boy, so you think you're a man of letters now, aren't you? You read one book, one damned book that caused so much terror, so much bloodshed, written by a man who sent his own children to their deaths, by Jove, and you think you know better than me, hmmm?"

"He didn't".

"What?"

"Rousseau. He didn't send his own children to their deaths. He gave them up for adoption, with the utmost care and tenderness. What a foundling hospital did after that was not his responsibility. His responsibility was the people."

"The people! The people!" Saldeaux exclaimed, growing redder in the face, a combination of drink and ire. "The people are happy in the place that they are! Its God's will! Everyone is ordained into their position, be it the highest of kings or the lowliest of peasants, and they are happy with their place! They don't need madmen like you stirring them up and confusing them with philosophy!"

"Every person should have a background in philosophy, a basic education, at the very least, if they are to be competent citizens." Enjolras said calmly. Now that the original taboo was broken, he found he was rather enjoying himself.

"Oh well isn't that practical. Educate everyone. Too many leaders and not enough followers, is what we'll have there. The mass number of people should be left ignorant, useful idiots, they're happier that way, and society is much more stable, much more tranquil."

" 'I know several dungeons that are tranquil, I wouldn't want to live there'" Enjolras said, paraphrasing the great philosopher. "I doubt you would either, cito- er Monsieur."

"What did you call me?" Saldeaux's voice became low and menacing. Enjolras bit his lip. It was a slip of the tongue, an idiotic slip of the tongue. He used the title _citoyen _all the time in debate, and his habit manifested itself here. Certainly nothing was more distasteful to a man who had grown up as a refugee because of men who called each other _citoyen._ "You were about to say _citoyen_, weren't you? I knew it." He turned to Monsieur Enjolras. "Your son is a madman, a radical."

Enjolras folded his arms defiantly. "So I am."

By now almost the whole table was watching. His mother gasped at these words and began fanning herself frantically.

"Idiot." Saldeaux said. "You do not understand anything, you are too young, and yet it is people like you who are destroying society."

There was no turning back now. Enjolras took a deep breath and said, "We are destroying an illegitimate society, a society not in keeping with the social contract. We are going to rebuild a just society, based on liberty, equality, and fraternity." (Another, frantic gasp from Madame Enjolras).

At the motto of the revolution, Saldeaux leapt to his feet. "So that's what you want, hmmm? Mark my words, dear boy, if you keep up the way you do, you'll go the same way as all the others you so idolize"

Enjolras stood up at this moment. "I should think it a great honor to die fighting for the cause of liberty. I only pray I am worthy enough for such an honor, _citoyen. J'ai juré sur l'autel de Dieu, à l'hostilité éternelle contre toute forme de tyrannie sur l'esprit de l'homme_."

At these words Enjolras' mother fainted, the whole table leapt into disarray, and Enjolras himself was temporarily blinded by a stunning blow from Saldeaux's cane that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Clutching his hands to his temple, the young man stumbled and struggled to maintain his balance. He gripped the side of the table and looked up through the curtain of blonde hair that had fallen in front of his face. Saldeaux was sitting back down, triumphantly, at least three servants and several more ladies were tending to his mother, and Marie Antoinette was staring at him with a sort of blank look. He glanced at his father, who was shaking his head. "Go." He said to his son.

Enjolras turned, and struggling to walk straight, left the chaotic scene.


End file.
